THE ROOM WAS WARM and hushed. In the distance a clock ticked. The street outside Mary’s house was quiet with just the occasional swish of tires. Through the window Gini could see that rain had given way to sleet. She had arrived later than she had estimated, to find a note from Mary and a neatly laid tray of sandwiches. Now, it was almost two. The light was already thick and yellowish. She leaned back in the armchair. She could feel sleep creeping up on her, but then, she had scarcely slept at all the previous night. She fought to stay awake, to think, but somnolence crept through her veins. It made her limbs feel heavy and her mind imprecise. What she would do, she decided, was wait for Mary, and then ask her more about the Hawthornes. She herself had just met them properly for the first time, after all: Such questions need not seem odd or out of place. She would ask Mary why she thought Lise had seemed so tense. She might even risk the mention of McMullen’s name. Mary might possibly know how and when his friendship with Lise began. She would lead Mary back down the winding paths of memory, of anecdote, and if there was a deception on her own part there, it was one which could be excused, she felt.
Dog, who had settled himself on the hearth rug, began to snore lightly and to dream. He scrabbled with his paws and woofed. Gini heard the clock outside strike the half-hour, then chime three. Her eyelids felt heavy. The fire was warm. She thought of Pascal, and of how each passing hour brought his return closer. By now he would be with Marianne, perhaps playing with her, or reading to her, or taking her out for a walk. Then he would be on his way to the airport, on the plane, and then…She sighed, tried to waken herself, failed, and drifted into sleep.
She woke, startled, from deep sleep. The room was dark. There was a horrible banging and ringing. For a moment, deceived by travel, and tiredness, and darkness, she could not think where she was. Then she remembered. She was at Mary’s, of course, and that noise came from the front door, where someone was knocking and ringing the bell. She stumbled to her feet, almost falling over Dog. Then she saw the fire had burned low, was almost out. How long had she slept? Where was Mary? She felt her way to the nearest table and switched on a lamp. Dog was now alert, his head raised, his hackles up. A low growl came from his throat. It was dark outside. She looked at her watch, saw it was almost five, and felt a dart of alarm. Where was Mary, and why had she not called as she’d promised she would?
The knocking at the door had stopped. She crossed into the hallway and listened. Had the person outside left, or was he still there? She felt a sudden fear. She was alone in this house; it was dark outside. For an instant she saw that room in Venice, two dead bodies. She saw Stevey’s blank blue-eyed stare, that small wound at the back of his neck, all it took to end a life. And she heard Pascal’s warning voice: It can be subtler than that, a road accident, a fall from an underground train, a little contretemps with an elevator shaft…
Fighting down the fear, and despising herself, she opened the door, gave a cry of alarm, and stepped back. There was a rustling, some electricity in the air, then that familiar crackle of radio static. A strange man, dressed in dark clothes, blocked the doorway. He was very tall, and powerfully built. He was wearing a dark overcoat and black gloves.
Gini hesitated, began to say something, changed her mind, and made to close the door.
A large foot in a black oxford shoe was inserted in the gap.
“Ms. Hunter? One moment, please,” said an American voice, and the door was pushed back.
Pascal arrived at his ex-wife’s home at twelve-fifteen. Helen opened the door herself.
“You’re late.”
“Fifteen minutes, Helen. The flight was slightly delayed. I had to pick up my car.”
“It’s not very convenient, never knowing what time you’ll turn up.” She gave him a pinched look. “I’m going out, it’s the nanny’s day off. You’ve delayed me. Well, as you’re here, you’d better come in, I suppose. I can’t think what you propose doing. The weather’s foul, and Marianne’s being difficult today. It unsettles her, these visits of yours.”
Pascal answered none of this. Helen had led him into what she called the television room. It contained numerous expensive overstuffed chairs and too much chintz. Marianne was sitting on the floor in front of the television set. She was watching an American cartoon, a series of brightly colored animals engaged in a noisy and violent fight.
She greeted Pascal, but did not go to him, or stand up. Pascal looked at her, and his heart ached. These afternoons were often strained. Three hours was not long enough to build bridges with his daughter. It was hard, week after week, to think of new expeditions they could make.
In the summer months, when he could take her for swimming lessons or to parks, it was easier—but in the winter? He looked out the window. It was cold and windy, but not raining as yet.
“I thought you might like to go to the playground, Marianne,” he began, thinking of the small park nearby. “You like the swings there, and the roundabouts….”
Marianne rose obediently to her feet. “Yes, Papa,” she said without enthusiasm. “That would be nice. I’ll get my coat.”
She left the room with a hesitant glance at her mother as she passed. Helen shrugged.
“What you imagine you’re going to do in the park all afternoon, I can’t think. It’s freezing cold….”
“We’ll go there, then I’ll take her somewhere for tea,” Pascal began. Helen cut him off.
“Well, if you want. It’s your choice. I’d better give you the key. I’ll try to be back by three, but if I’m delayed, you can let yourselves in.”
“Delayed?”
“For heaven’s sake, Pascal, I am entitled to go out occasionally. As a matter of fact, I’m seeing friends for lunch. I’ll try to get back by three, obviously.” Her eyes slid away from his face.
“Fine,” Pascal said. “Perhaps you’d better let me have their number?”
She gave the response he expected, a cold, impatient glance.
“I can’t do that. We’re going to a restaurant somewhere—and no, I don’t know which. Surely you can manage, Pascal, for three hours. It’s not asking so very much.”
Pascal was calculating time in his head. If Helen returned at three, he could catch the five o’clock flight without problems. If she delayed him, however…He hesitated. He was about to mention the plane, then stopped himself. Knowing he needed to be somewhere else urgently would probably ensure Helen was late.
“Here’s the keys. Double-lock the doors, won’t you? I’ll see you around three. Good-bye, Marianne. Don’t let Daddy tire you out.”
At the playground, Marianne allowed Pascal to push her on the swings for a while, but she seemed not to enjoy it very much. She climbed onto the merry-go-round at his suggestion, and sat there politely while Pascal set it in motion. As soon as it slowed, though, she climbed off. Hand in hand they walked down to the small lake at the edge of the playground to watch the ducks. Pascal had forgotten to bring bread to feed them.
“It doesn’t matter, Papa,” Marianne said. She let go of his hand, walked across to a bench, and sat down.
Pascal followed her and sat down also. He felt a sense of despair. Only half an hour had passed. “Is anything the matter, darling?” he said gently. “Is something wrong?”
“My ear hurts a bit. My throat’s sore,” she replied, and rubbed it. “I feel cold.”
Pascal examined her face. Her forehead and lips were pale, but her cheeks were flushed. She shivered as he looked at her. He touched her forehead. It felt warm.
“Does your ear ache, darling?”
“It hurts. And I can’t hear very well.”
Pascal hesitated. He looked despondently around the park. No other children had ventured out.
“Perhaps it’s just the cold,” he said in a cheerful voice. “We’d be better off inside on a day like this, don’t you think, Marianne? I wonder, would you like to go to that café where we went before, do you remember? The one with the excellent ice cream?”
Marianne gave a wan smile. “No, thank you, Papa. I’d rather go home.”
This was unprecedented. Pascal felt the stirrings of alarm. He felt her forehead again, then took her hand. “That’s a very good suggestion. We’ll go home and make some tea. We can watch television together—how would that be?”
This prospect seemed to please her. She brightened.
“I’d like that,” she said. “I always watch television on my own.”
“Doesn’t Mummy watch with you, darling? Or the nanny—the new nanny? What’s her name?”
“Elizabeth. She’s English. Yes, she watches sometimes. Mummy always says she will, then she’s too busy.” She clasped his hand more tightly. “On Monday afternoon it’s Dangermouse, I think. I like him.”
“Good, then Dangermouse it shall be,” Pascal said.
It was not a long walk, but Marianne’s pace grew slower and slower. She began to lag behind. Pascal felt her forehead again. It now felt very hot. He carried her the rest of the way home.
Indoors, he tucked Marianne up on a couch in the television room and put a blanket around her knees. He switched on the television set, and lit Helen’s gas fire. He went in search of aspirin, and found them eventually in the third bathroom he checked, Helen’s own. It was an elaborate bathroom fitted out in rose marble. A long shelf was cluttered with cosmetics, with antiaging skin creams, and bottles of scent The aspirin were in the medicine cabinet, along with the horseshoe-shaped box containing Helen’s diaphragm, and several tubes of spermicidal jelly. The box was open, and the diaphragm gone.
Pascal closed the cabinet, feeling guilty at having seen this. He fetched a glass of water and went back to Marianne. He had been away no more than five minutes, but in that time, to judge from her face, her temperature had risen. She was now scarlet, and very hot to the touch. The act of swallowing the aspirin caused her pain.
“Papa, my throat hurts,” she said.
Pascal stroked her hair. He put a cushion behind her head and gently unbuttoned the fastening of her dress. Her chest and neck were covered with a mottled rash. Pascal rebuttoned the dress. It was still only one o’clock.
“What time does your nanny—does Elizabeth come home on her day off, Marianne?”
“In the evening. After tea. To give me my bath.”
“Doesn’t Mummy do that on Elizabeth’s day off?”
“No. Elizabeth always does it. Then she reads me a story and puts me to bed. …”
Pascal frowned. Careful to keep his voice calm he said, “Listen, Marianne, I think maybe Papa should call a doctor. See if he can give you something for that throat of yours, okay? Now, would you like me to call my doctor, or the one you usually see?”
“Your doctor, Papa. Our doctor’s horrid. He’s old, and he’s always in a hurry. He’s cross.”
The doctor was on the other side of Paris, treating an emergency—cardiac arrest. He would come after that, his receptionist said, but Pascal should not expect him for two hours at least.
Pascal returned to the television room. Marianne had fallen asleep. He sat by her side and watched her anxiously for a while. Her breathing was regular, and her skin felt a little cooler—the aspirin taking effect.
Pascal rose and began to pace the room. He felt restless, worried, and unable to settle. He picked up one of Helen’s fashion magazines, then tossed it aside. There was never anything worth reading in this house. He looked across at the telephone and considered calling Gini. It was past two now. He looked at Marianne, still sleeping. He began to acknowledge to himself that he might not catch that five o’clock flight. Sometime after two, still restless, he went out to the street. There was still no sign of the doctor’s car.
He returned inside and sat down opposite Marianne. To calm himself, he tried to think of work, but that did not have a calming effect. He remembered the Palazzo Ossorio, and he felt torn between two fears—fear for Gini, fear for Marianne. From his pocket he took out the small brass button he had found the previous evening beneath the pile of Stevey’s clothes. It had been lodged in a crack in the floorboards, almost invisible. Did it belong to the assassin? It certainly looked new, bright, and untarnished. He turned it this way and that. The design was well worked. Examining it more closely, he saw it represented the kind of garland made to adorn a hero’s brows, or a victorious general’s. Bay, oak—whichever leaf indicated triumph—that.
He peered at the tiny thing closely, then put it away. From his camera bag he took out the book Gini had found. An old, battered paperback, a Penguin edition, available in thousands of shops. On the cover was a portrait of a young John Milton; inside, the pages were discolored by age, and spotted with damp. Paradise Lost. The same book Gini had found on McMullen’s desk. Did it indicate more than a taste for Milton, for epic poetry—or not? The likelihood, he supposed, was that it did belong to McMullen, which indicated that at some point, McMullen had been in Venice. But it told him no more than that.
He glanced across at Marianne, who still slept. For want of anything else to do, he began to read, but he quickly found himself in difficulty. Pascal’s spoken English was excellent—his father had taught languages in the village school, the village where Pascal grew up. His father had died when Pascal was ten, and his memories of him were blurred, but he could remember the evenings, long ago, when his father had read to him, little extracts of English, little samplings of greatness, some Shakespeare, yes, he could remember that, and some Dickens. Not Milton that he could remember. He turned the page. The extraordinary clotted syntax here was beyond him; his English might be good, but not good enough for this. He turned another page, stiffened, then held the book up to the light.
Along the side of the verse there was a faint pencil mark: no words, but one passage had been marked, singled out. Pascal traced the words carefully:
For now the thought
Both of lost happiness and lasting pain
Torments him.
Pascal frowned. The words reverberated in his mind. He applied them, briefly, to his own life. Did they fit McMullen’s also? He closed the book. Across the room, Marianne had begun to murmur. She pushed the blanket aside restlessly. Pascal felt her forehead again. The aspirin must be wearing off; her skin was burning hot.
He ran out into the hallway, opened the front door. Still no sign of the doctor’s car. Anguish and alarm gripped him. He returned to the room, removed the blanket covering his daughter, turned off the fire, and opened the window a crack. He must reduce her temperature; somehow he must reduce her temperature.
He knelt down at his daughter’s side and began to stroke her forehead. He wondered if he dared give her more aspirin yet. On the bottle it said the dose should be given at four-hour intervals. He looked at his watch. What time had he given her the aspirin? Around two, he thought. It was now nearly four, too soon to give her more, surely?
He felt an agonized indecision, realized he had now missed the flight, then forgot the flight at once. Marianne had awakened. She asked him for some water. When he brought it, she sipped, but seemed unable to swallow. Pascal laid her down again, went through into another room, and called the doctor’s once more, his voice unsteady with anger and alarm.
“Don’t worry, Monsieur Lamartine,” said the receptionist in a soothing tone. “I’m sure she will be fine. Children do develop these high fevers suddenly. Keep her cool. The doctor will be with you shortly. Don’t alarm yourself. She will be perfectly all right.”
The receptionist was wrong. Marianne was not all right. At five-thirty, just as Pascal was getting ready to give her more aspirin, he heard the doctor’s car pull up outside. He was in the act of moving across the room to open the front door when he stopped. Marianne had made the tiniest of noises, a horrible dry sucking-in of breath.
He swung around. With a dreadful suddenness, Marianne’s eyes opened, then rolled back. She gave a small preliminary tremor, then her whole body convulsed.
“Apologies for alarming you, ma’am.” This huge man was, Gini thought, very polite—very polite and very impassive. His face was as blank as a barn door. He was now holding a wallet out to her. He flipped it open. She saw a U.S. embassy crest, a photograph, and a name: Frank Romero. He snapped it shut.
“Lady Pemberton is at the ambassador’s residence now. She wasn’t available to call you as planned, ma’am. The ambassador felt it might be simpler if you joined her there, ma’am. I have a car here. He apologizes for your wait.”
Gini hesitated, and the man picked up on the hesitation at once. He handed her a plain white card on which was printed a number.
“If you’d like to call that number, ma’am. You can confirm the arrangements.”
“Thank you,” Gini said. “I need to get my things in any case.”
Gini hesitated again, then shut the door. She ran back into the sitting room and placed the call. It rang three times, then John Hawthorne answered it. He sounded calm, absolutely, as he always did.
“Gini?” he said. “I’m sorry about all this. I’ll just pass you over to Mary….”
Mary sounded anything but calm. She sounded exhausted, and flustered too. “Gini, I’m so terribly sorry, darling. There’s been a bit of a drama. No, I can’t talk. If you could just come straight over…what’s that, John?” There was a pause. “Oh, good, Gini, are you there? I gather John’s sent one of the—one of the security people, Frank. Yes, darling. What?”
“I don’t understand. Why do you need me there, Mary?”
“Darling, I can’t explain now. When I see you. Good—in about twenty minutes, then, half an hour.”
Gini hung up. She gathered her bag and her coat, kissed Dog, and walked out to the steps. It had stopped raining. Frank Romero was standing by the car. He was in the act of removing his dark overcoat, which he folded neatly and placed on the backseat. By the time she had descended the steps, he was on the sidewalk, at the ready, opening the rear passenger door. Gini looked at him intently, very intently. She could see that beneath the coat he had been wearing clothes that might have been sharp informal wear, or possibly a kind of uniform. Black shoes, dark gray pants with a knife-edge crease, and a double-breasted blazer in black. The blazer was fastened with a double row of brass buttons. She stumbled convincingly; Frank Romero put out an arm to steady her.
“Watch your step, ma’am. The sidewalk’s slippery.”
Gini leaned on his arm, wriggled her unhurt ankle, and grimaced. There were also brass buttons on the sleeves of his jacket, and she could see them clearly now. They were stamped with an interesting, a memorable device—a little garland of oak leaves. She straightened up and gave him a smile.
“I’m fine. It’s okay. I just twisted it a bit. I’ll sit in the front.”
She sat beside him, and waited until they’d traveled one street, two streets. “So tell me,” she said. “Have you worked for the ambassador long?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“How long?”
He glanced toward her, then fixed his eyes on the road ahead. “Since he was appointed, ma’am.”
“I guess it must be a very interesting job….”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Damn and blast, Gini thought. She sat in silence, trying to decide the best approach. Frank Romero kept his eyes on the road ahead. It was rush hour, and the traffic was heavy. Near Hyde Park Corner, they came to a halt.
“Would you mind if I asked you a question, Frank?”
He gave her another quick, covert glance, then turned his impassive face back to the traffic. “It’s something I’ve always wanted to know. You security people—how do you train for work like this? You have police training, maybe, or a period in the military, or what?”
“In my case, ma’am”—he kept his eyes on the road ahead—“I had a period in the military. I’m a Vietnam vet.”
“How interesting. You have something in common with Ambassador Hawthorne, then. He was telling me about his time in Vietnam the other night.”
“Yes, ma’am?”
There was a long silence. Gini did not prompt. Eventually, as she had been silently hoping, her remark seemed to encourage him: He actually volunteered some information.
“I served under Ambassador Hawthorne, ma’am. Out in Nam. I was sergeant to his platoon.”
“Oh, I see,” Gini said. “Then your connection with the family goes back a long way.”
“Yes, ma’am. It does.”
He volunteered nothing more, and Gini knew better than to prompt further. She kept the conversation to innocuous topics from then on: the weather, London traffic. They reached Regent’s Park, and turned in at Hanover Gate. They passed the mosque on their left; on the right was the lodge entrance to Winfield House. They halted there briefly, then were waved on. Frank Romero parked the car outside the residence. He came around and politely held open her door. As Gini climbed out, she looked closely at the buttons on his jacket. Six on the front, three on each sleeve, none missing.
John Hawthorne had appeared on the steps. “Everything all right, Frank?”
“Yes, Mr. Ambassador.”
“I’ll be three minutes. Gini, come inside out of the cold.” He glanced up at the sky, then took her arm. “I’m so sorry about this.” He drew her up the steps and into a large hall. “A few alarms and excursions. Mary will explain. I have to leave you, I’m afraid. I’m late for a meeting at the Foreign Office as it is. Mary’s through here. Lise will be joining you shortly.”
He led her into the pinkish drawing room she had seen in the Hello! magazine photographs. The curtains were drawn, a fire was lit; above the fireplace was the rose period Picasso, to the right of it the pinkish Matisse. Mary rose to her feet from a chair near the fire. Gini could see at once that she looked both exhausted and distressed.
John Hawthorne, who appeared neither, stayed only a few minutes, then left.
As soon as the door closed on him, Mary held out her arms, then hugged Gini tight. Her kind and honest eyes met Gini’s; she gave a tired sigh.
“Gini, I’m so terribly sorry. I would have called if I could. But really…” She gave a helpless gesture. “It’s been pandemonium here, absolutely dreadful. My head’s splitting. They just brought me some tea—would you like some tea? I’d better explain before Lise comes down. Then with any luck we’ll be able to leave. I can’t stand much more of this. …”
Gini moved across to the fire and sat down opposite Mary. As Mary poured tea, she looked around this pinkish room. The table next to her was weighted down with photographs: official photographs, family photographs: a young John Hawthorne in army uniform; the Hawthornes with various past presidents and other heads of state; the Hawthornes en famille. Two beautiful blond-haired boys, a house she recognized as Hawthorne’s childhood home in upstate New York. Robert and Adam Hawthorne stood outside it with their grandfather, S. S. Hawthorne. He was seated in a wheelchair, John Hawthorne standing to his side: Lise was not in the picture.
She looked back at Mary, who was passing her a cup. Her hand trembled and the silver teaspoon rattled. To Gini’s astonishment, Mary leaned forward, opened a cigarette box on the table in front of her, and lit a cigarette. Meeting Gini’s eyes, she gave a wan smile.
“I know. I know. But after what I’ve been through, I need one, Gini. That or a damn stiff drink…”
“What on earth’s been going on, Mary? Why am I here? I don’t understand a thing.”
“I’ll come to you in a moment.” Mary sighed. “And don’t ask me how it all started, or exactly when, because I don’t know. All I know is that on Saturday at my party, I could see Lise was terribly tense. She said she was worried about John’s safety. I thought it seemed odd, to be so strung up, but by the time they left, she seemed fine. Well, you saw. Much better. Very animated—a little too animated, perhaps…Anyway, I thought no more about it. Then on Sunday evening—yesterday, that’s right—John telephoned me. I talked to him for hours. He was terribly upset.”
“About Lise, you mean?”
“Well, yes, but more than that.” Mary gave her a helpless look. “The thing is, John’s so loyal and he has this terrible stiff-necked pride. He’ll never admit he has problems. He bottles them up. And as for asking for help, even advice—well, forget it. He hasn’t said a word to me, but obviously this has been building up for months. Anyway, never mind that. On Sunday, I could hear, he was close to the breaking point, and finally, finally, it all came out. Apparently Lise really isn’t well, Gini, and hasn’t been for ages. Since last summer at least. She’s seen doctor after doctor, but none of them seemed to be any help. Apparently, all day Sunday there’d been the most dreadful scenes, weeping, hysteria.”
“Why? What provoked that?”
Mary’s face became perplexed. She gave another sigh.
“Well, I think John did—though he didn’t mean to, of course. You see, apparently, he’s been getting more and more worried as the weeks went by, for Lise obviously, but also for the boys. You know what children are like, they pick up every little thing. Lise was getting so het up about all this security business. She was making their lives impossible, fussing over them, weeping, then losing her temper with them for no reason at all. And then I think…” Mary paused. “Well, John would never tell me this directly, but I think it had caused problems with him as well. There had been quarrels, I suspect, and the younger boy, Adam, overheard one quarrel, I think. He’s been very difficult to handle. He’s so close to Lise, you see, so all her anxiety and tension spilled over onto him. He’s become very solitary, John says, and his schoolwork has fallen behind badly. His teachers are concerned. …”
She drew in a deep breath. “Anyway, to cut a long story short, John came to a decision. He decided that the best thing would be to send the boys back to the States for a few months, to stay with his brother, Prescott. Of course, Prescott has a whole tribe of children. John thought it would do the boys good, give them a break from all this anger and tension and anxiety. He thought it would do Lise good too—apparently she’d been having some wild fantasies that someone was going to kidnap the boys, that kind of thing. So John thought it would help her too. Then when this current security alert died down, and Lise was calmer again, the boys could come back.”
Mary stopped, her face troubled. Gini said nothing. This was one explanation, and a plausible one at that. There were others, of course.
“Anyway,” Mary continued. “John then did a very stupid thing in my opinion—and I told him so, straight out. It’s very typical of John, he makes a decision and that’s that. Instead of consulting Lise about all this, he just went right ahead and made the arrangements. He informed Lise yesterday morning. The boys were on a plane, with entourage obviously, last night.”
“Last night?” Gini stared. “You mean he just went ahead and did it?”
“Darling, I know! But he can be curiously blind like that. He thought it was all for the best, so he just assumed Lise would think so too. Even if he’d known she was going to oppose it, he’d still have acted the same way. Once John’s made what he thinks is the right decision, you can’t budge him. That’s that.”
“And Lise was distraught?”
Mary glanced over her shoulder. She lowered her voice.
“Darling, much more than that. All day yesterday there was the most ghastly scene. Screaming and weeping, I gather, and smashing things. By the time John called me last night, they’d had to get a doctor, they’d given her sedatives. He was absolutely desperate, darling, I felt so terribly sorry for him. I think he was close to tears—I could hear them in his voice. He was so worried as to what would happen today. So I said, if he needed me, I’d come over. And as you know, I did.”
She gave a little shiver. “Gini, I got here at ten in the morning. I’ve been here ever since. It’s gone on all day. John had to cancel a whole series of appointments. He wouldn’t leave her. He thought, if we both talked to her quietly, she would calm down, and she did at first. She’d been given some tranquilizers first thing in the morning. About eleven o’clock, they wore off. Then it started…Gini, I was so shocked. It was absolutely horrible. She accused John of the most terrible things. Ridiculous things—”
“What sort of things, Mary?”
“I’m not going to repeat them.” Mary blushed. “Mistresses, other women—you can imagine the kind of thing. I mean—it’s so absurd! John has never looked at another woman. He’s the most utterly loyal and faithful man. Then it was the children, how he was trying to take them away from her. Then…oh, lots of terrible mad things—he was having her watched, he was opening her letters. It went on and on and on. John was so incredibly kind and patient. I tried, but nothing anyone said made the least difference. John got them to send for the doctor again, but Lise wouldn’t see him, she said she’d kill herself if he set foot in her room. So in the end John sent him away. We went upstairs again and tried one more time—this must have been about three o’clock—and she calmed down for a while. She said she felt better, that she was going to take a nap. Then, quite suddenly, for no reason at all, it all began again. Only worse. John was trying to help her across the bedroom into bed, and she suddenly flew at him, and she attacked him, Gini. She started pulling his hair, ripping his clothes. It was so frightening, so completely horrible. He just stood there, trying to fend her off, with this terrible expression on his face. He looked dead, Gini, in utter despair. So…I stopped her.”
“You stopped her?”
“Yes, I did. She was hysterical. I slapped her face.”
Mary gave a tiny unhappy shake of the head. “And oddly, it seemed to do the trick. After that she became much calmer. She kept talking very fast, but at least she wasn’t screaming and weeping anymore. That’s when I said I had to get back, because you were waiting for me. And that’s when she started on a new tack. How John never let her have any friends, how he kept her away from all her friends, how she’d wanted to talk to you the other night, but he’d prevented her…I don’t know, Gini. It was just more nonsense. Then she asked to see you. She kept saying it. I want to see Gini, now. I want to talk to Gini. So, I stayed with her, and John sent the car over. It just seemed the easiest thing to do. She’s supposed to be coming down in a minute. If she does, she’ll probably have forgotten she even mentioned your name. Then, with luck, as I said, we can go. There’s a nurse here now. John says he shouldn’t be much more than an hour at the Foreign Office, then he’ll come straight back. I feel sorry for him, Gini, but frankly, I’ve had enough.”
Gini said nothing. She drank her tea, and put the cup back on the tray. She looked around this elegant room. The house was silent; it was now just past six o’clock. Pascal intended to catch the five o’clock flight, Paris time; there was an hour’s time difference in the winter months. That meant he would be reaching Heathrow Airport at around seven P.M. London time. Allow an hour from the airport into London. Around eight P.M. he would be arriving at Mary’s house. She did not want to miss him, but she could see that the meeting with Lise might not be as cursory as Mary seemed to expect. There were many reasons she could think of, pressing reasons, why Lise might want to speak to her. …But not here, surely? She looked at the room: Would you wire a drawing room for sound? In your own home? Four days ago, she would have dismissed that thought as absurd, as paranoid; not now.
At that moment the door opened, and Lise entered. She was dressed from head to foot in exquisite pale beige cashmere: over a cashmere dress she was wearing a cashmere coat. She looked radiant.
She crossed the room and kissed Gini warmly on both cheeks. Mary stared at her in astonishment.
“Come on, Mary, Gini…” She looked from one to the other. “We’re going out.”
“Out?” Mary rose to her feet. “Lise, that’s not a good idea, you know.”
“It’s a very good idea. I’m sorry, Mary, for all I put you through, but I realize now, I was just being stupid and neurotic. I think I had a bad reaction to whatever that quack of a doctor gave me yesterday. Well, it has worn off, and I feel absolutely fine now. I’ve had a bath, a little sleep. I feel like a new person. I’ve told them to bring the car around. We’ll go out. I thought I’d buy you both dinner. My treat, Mary, my way of thanking you for being so sweet.”
“No, Lise.” Mary spoke firmly. “I promised John you’d rest. He’ll be home soon.”
“Nonsense. He won’t be back before eight at the earliest. I know! If you won’t come to dinner, will you let me take you out for a drink? Please say yes. I’ve been cooped up all weekend. I need a change of air. There’s this marvelous new place, not far from you, Mary. A friend of a friend runs it. They serve those delicious tapas things—just for an hour. Okay?”
Mary gave a sigh, and turned away. Lise looked at Gini intently. Silently, she mouthed the words: Say yes.
“I think that’s a good idea, Mary,” Gini said quickly. “Just for an hour. It might do Lise good. …”
Lise smiled and began to move toward the door. Mary gave Gini an exhausted look.
“Come on, Mary,” Gini said in a low voice. “It could do her good. You never know. She seems fine now. They’ll drive her there, then drive her back.”
Mary gave her a puzzled glance, then shrugged. “On your head be it,” she said.
The Kensington wine bar Lise had selected proved to be only two blocks from Mary’s house. It was chic, fashionable, and packed. They were driven there by a uniformed driver, with the security man from Mary’s party, Malone, in the other front seat.
He did not speak once. When they arrived outside the bar, he climbed from the car and went in first. He was inside five minutes, and Lise began to show signs of irritation.
“Oh, heavens,” she said. “How they do fuss. I wish he’d hurry up.”
Malone’s time, it seemed, had not been wasted. When they entered the crowded wine bar, a table had been made available for them, close to the fire exit, Gini noted. Malone hovered for a few seconds, then disappeared. Lise gave a sigh.
“Thank God. He’ll wait outside, and check I’m still here every ten minutes. You can set your watch by them.”
“Come on, now, Lise,” Mary said in an encouraging tone. “You shouldn’t resent them. They’re only doing their job.”
“Oh, I know, I know…” Lise gave a tiny, impatient gesture. “Better him than Frank, anyway.” She turned to Gini with an inquiring look. “Was it Frank who brought you, Gini?”
“Yes, it was.”
Lise made a face. “Horrible man. He’s had the whole weekend off, thank heaven. I like him the least. Always creeping around on those crepe-soled shoes of his. Still, John won’t hear a word against him. They go back a long way. He served with John in Vietnam, you know. He was sergeant in John’s platoon. Then he worked for John’s father for years and years.”
Her voice had risen slightly. Mary’s face became uneasy.
“Now, Lise, come on. Forget about him. Forget about all of them.”
“You’re right.” Lise smiled and held up the menu. “Gini, look at all these amazing cocktails they have. Which would you like? Mary?”
Both Lise and Gini ordered mineral water; Mary, with a wry glance at Gini, ordered a double scotch. The drinks arrived, the tapas were served. The noise was deafening: background music, conversation, laughter. Lise looked around her and gave a slow smile.
“How nice,” she said. “I like this place. Excuse me…” She stopped the waitress. “Would you just remove these? We won’t be needing them….”
She indicated a small vase of flowers, two containers for salt and pepper. The waitress stared at her, then removed them. The moment the table was clear, Lise seemed to relax. She chatted away for a while, then suddenly rose to her feet.
“I must pop into the ladies’ room for a moment,” she said.
Gini watched her make her way through the press of people by the bar. The rest rooms, she noted from the signs, were next to the telephones. She remembered that tape she had listened to with Pascal, and a similar ploy used by Lise on a former occasion. Could she intend to telephone someone? And why remove the objects on the table—unless she suspected they were bugged? She met Mary’s eyes. Mary sighed and took a hefty swallow of her drink.
“Don’t say it, Gini, I know. You’re going to think I was imagining the whole thing. She seems perfectly all right. Well, I just hope it lasts that’s all. If it doesn’t, there’ll be all hell to pay when John finds out”
“I thought it was a good idea to humor her,” Gini said.
“Darling, I hope to God you’re right.” Mary broke off. “Oh—I’ve just remembered. You wanted to see me—you wanted to talk. I’d completely forgotten. What was wrong, darling?”
“Nothing. I’m fine now. Really.”
“You certainly look fine. You’re looking better than I’ve seen you look in months.” Mary gave her a narrow look. “I wonder why? Any particular reason, darling? New job, new man, something like that?”
“Don’t fish, Mary.” Gini smiled.
“Would I?” Mary gave her a wide-eyed look of innocence. She took another sip of whisky. “I meant to tell you,” she continued in an offhand way, which did not deceive Gini in the least, “I was pleasantly surprised by your paparazzo. Not that I spoke to him for very long. But he seemed rather nice. How old is he, Gini?”
“Thirty-five.”
“Really? Yes, well, I thought he had very nice eyes. A man’s eyes are very important, and—”
“Who are you talking about?”
Lise had returned. She removed her coat and slid into her seat.
“Gini’s friend. Pascal Lamartine,” Mary replied.
Lise’s face instantly lit. “Oh, yes, Gini, what a very nice man he is. So intelligent. So French.” She gave Gini a teasing, almost mischievous look. “You know I was reading his palm—I hope you didn’t mind, my little party trick…well, his was most interesting. A deep life line, a strong fate line, one marriage, one very strong attachment, four children in all….”
“Four?”
“Well, I gather he has one already. So there are three still to come. Oh,” she paused, “and some very significant event, midlife—between thirty-five and forty, around then. It was quite clearly marked—a strong break in his fate line. I told him it could be bad or good, but it was a major alteration, some radical change.”
“Really?” Gini said, realizing with some self-disgust that she was listening intently to this.
“Oh, most definitely.” Lise nodded. “I never make a mistake. I told John that this would be a very difficult year for him, even a dangerous one, and I was right.”
“It’s January, Lise….” Mary put in.
Lise dismissed this blithely. “I know—and it’s begun the way it means to go on. Have one of these tapas, Mary. They’re delicious, don’t you think?”
For twenty minutes Lise continued to chat. She ate nothing, taking one of the tapas now and then, and crumbling it on her plate. Apart from this she seemed calm and relaxed. Gini found herself wondering: Was Lise a very good actress—and if so, had she been feigning hysteria earlier, or was she acting now? Which was her true self?
Mary, who seemed exhausted, took little part in this conversation. Lise told Gini about her work on the residence in London, the redecorations at her country house, the work John had organized in the gardens there—her husband was passionate about gardens, she said. She discussed her two sons with no sign of distress; she spoke warmly of their uncle Prescott, and how good it would be for the boys to spend some time back in the States. She described the party to be held shortly for her husband’s forty-eighth birthday, and pressed Gini to attend, as her husband had done. Her conversation was lively, even amusing at times, and the only unusual feature of it that Gini noted was the frequency of her references to her husband. She quoted his views constantly. His name punctuated every sentence. John thinks, John says, John feels, John hopes….
Gini glanced covertly at her watch. She intended to leave soon, and before she did, it was time to give this conversation a little push.
“Tell me,” she said, “when this posting to Britain is over, does your husband intend to return to political life?”
“Oh, yes.” Lise glanced at Mary. “Poor John. He took this position only for my sake. He thought it would give me a role, you see—and also that we would be able to see more of each other. He knew I hated living in Washington. Such a one-horse town, politics morning, noon, and night.” She paused, and glanced at Mary again.
“I hope he’s beginning to understand that he should never have done that. It was a sacrifice I never wanted him to make. I pleaded with him not to resign from the Senate. But John can be so immovable. I knew he would regret it, and he has. When you’re born for high office, as John was, there’s no escaping your fate.”
“Why did he resign?” Gini said. “I’ve never understood that.”
“Oh, Gini, no one did.” Lise sighed. “You’d have to know John terribly well to understand. I think, basically, he felt terribly guilty.” She gave Gini a small glance. “Our little boy Adam had been so ill, he nearly died, you know—it was the most terrible time. John felt he should have been with us more, that he’d failed in his responsibilities to us. So he just made the decision. He didn’t even consult me. And that was that….” She hesitated, and her lovely face clouded. “Since then he’s changed. I know he’s not happy. Not fulfilled. Ambassador!” She gave a dismissive gesture. “Anyone can be an ambassador. John was always destined for greater things than that.”
There was a silence. Mary raised her eyebrows but said nothing. Gini leaned forward.
“So, you think he’ll return to full-time politics in due course?”
“Oh, more than that.” Lise’s face took on an earnest look. She resembled a child repeating a well-learned lesson.
“John will run for the presidency eventually, just the way his father always planned, the way he always planned. And he’ll be elected, of course.”
She said this with an air of absolute certainty, as if she could look into the future. There was no trace of boasting.
“I see.” Gini was shaken by her manner. “And how would you feel about that?” she said carefully. “What about your objections to Washington?”
“Washington?” Lise’s face became blank.
“Well, that’s where the White House was the last time I visited.”
“Oh, I see.” Amusement lit her face. “Well, I never really objected to Washington, not as such. John thought I did, but that was all in his mind….”
Gini frowned. “But I thought you just said…when you lived there before, you found it limiting, a one-horse town?”
“Did I say that?” Lise looked genuinely surprised despite the fact that it was less than five minutes since she had made the remark. She gave a small shrug, glanced down at her watch, then across at Mary. She sighed. “Perhaps I’ve had some reservations in the past. I used to be so shy. It took me years to get used to such a public life. But now…well, I mustn’t stand in John’s way. That would be wrong of me, I think. Besides …” Her voice faltered. “I could be an asset to John—he used to say that. It would be such a boost for all my charities, and then I could redecorate the White House, restore it, the way Jackie Kennedy did. I’m quite good with houses, even John says that….”
She gave a sweet, childlike, and slightly anxious smile. Then, lifting her hand, she made little waving gestures as if trying to attract their waitress’s attention.
“Oh, what a nuisance,” she said. “I can’t catch that wretched girl’s eye. And I can see Mary’s absolutely exhausted. No, Mary, you are, and it’s entirely my fault. I’m talking on and on, and you’re just longing to go home and have a rest. Dammit, she simply will not look this way.” She half rose to her feet, but Mary stopped her.
“No, don’t be silly, Lise. You’re squashed in there in the corner. I’ll get her. Where is she?”
“She’s over there. Just beyond that crush at the bar. The one with frizzy red hair, I think….”
Mary rose and began to push her way through the throng of people. Gini looked around the room. The waitress who had served them, she noted, did not have red hair, and she was not over by the bar, she was standing at the opposite end of the long room. She turned back to look at Lise. The alteration in Lise’s demeanor had been immediate. The expression of somewhat sugary rapture was wiped from her face. Her features were now tense and set; she had paled. She glanced quickly over her shoulder, leaned across the table, and grasped Gini’s wrist.
“Oh, my God, I’m sorry. I had to talk to you. Can you help me? Are you helping me?” she asked.
Gini began to reply, but Lise interrupted her, speaking fast in a very low voice.
“I had to do this. I had to speak to you somehow. I would have tried at Mary’s the other night, but he was watching me all the time. I didn’t dare. I tried to help, did your friend tell you? John didn’t realize what I did, but even so, he was so angry, so angry. I can’t tell you what he’s like when he’s angry. He punishes me—that’s why he sent my sons home the next day, to punish me. Please, please, you have to help me. You’re my last hope.”
She had begun to tremble. Her grip tightened on Gini’s wrist. “Have you found James yet? Have you? You must have looked for him? Where is he? Do you know?”
“No,” Gini said.
“Oh, God, oh, God.” Her face had turned chalk-white. “You must find him. Frank was on leave this weekend. I have to know James is safe. I’m so afraid he’s dead….” Her grip on Gini’s wrist had become painful. Suddenly, she released that grip and began to fumble with the sleeve of her sweater.
“Look,” she said. “Look.”
Her bared arm was painfully thin, and the bruise very large. Gini could see the imprint of fingers clearly, violet-black against her skin. Above the bruise were three round marks; Gini stared, then realized that they were burn marks, made with the tip of a cigarette.
“John did that yesterday. There are other marks. On my neck. On my back. That’s why I broke down. I can’t take it anymore. Mary doesn’t know. No one knows. Listen, please find James. Before next Sunday—you understand? Next Sunday…” Her voice died in her throat.
“I understand. Next Sunday is the third of the month.”
“Find James and go to that house. I gave your friend the address. I think he’ll use it, it’s his usual place—on Sunday, you understand? He’s always watching me. Well, now it’s his turn to be watched….”
She gave a shiver and again glanced over her shoulder. Again she gripped Gini’s wrist. “He’s so clever, Gini—you have to understand that. He makes me see all these doctors, doctor after doctor. Then they give me these pills, and he makes me take them, injections too. He wants people to think I’m having a breakdown, losing my mind. That’s why he got Mary there today, so she’d be a witness. Do you see?”
She trembled violently. “And, of course, it works. I can see what people think. They think I’m a fool, a nervous wreck, a bad mother.” Tears filled her eyes. “Sometimes I almost believe it all myself, all the lies he tells about me. I’m so desperate, Gini. You have to believe me. You have to help me. For my sake and my sons’ sake. They need me so much. You see, he doesn’t care, what it takes…” She made a choking sound, and the tears spilled over down her white cheeks.
“He hasn’t loved me, Gini, not for years—if he ever did. He’s such a cold man. He’s just like his father. He wants me out of the way, so he can carry on with that glorious future of his. I knew, if he ever discovered I’d talked to James, if he found out James had gone to the press, that would be the end. And he does know, I’m sure of it That’s why James left, and now…oh, God, oh God. Mary’s coming back—” She broke off, then pulled down her sleeve. She began to twist her wedding ring. “Listen, quickly. You mustn’t talk on your telephone. Be careful in your apartment. I’m watched. You’re watched. Never let that man Frank near you. The others are all right, they’re legitimate security men, but not Frank. Remember what I said…If you have to talk, use a park, an open space, better still, a crowded restaurant like this one, that’s the safest of all. Dear God…” She fixed Gini with her eyes. Her pupils were huge, dilated, black. She was shaking uncontrollably now, and was white to the lips. “Mary’s nearly here. I’ll try to see you again. It may not be possible. Wednesday. I’ll try then. Walk in the park, just behind my house. I used to meet James there then, on Wednesdays, about ten. You’ll come, you promise me?”
“I’ll be there,” Gini said.
“Thank you.” She grasped Gini’s hand feverishly, and pressed it between her thin, dry palms. “In God’s name, thank you. I shall never forget this. …”
Mary had finally reached their table. She looked down at Lise in consternation. Lise wiped her eyes with a handkerchief, and rose to her feet. She embraced Mary warmly, then kissed Gini.
“I’m sorry, Mary,” she said. “The tears just started, and then I couldn’t stop. I miss the boys so…. I’ll go home now with Malone. Thank you both. This has helped, really it has….”
Without another word she picked up her coat and began to walk through the restaurant. Mary hurried after her, but by the time she reached the door, the car was pulling away with Lise and Malone in the back.
Mary stood watching the car disappear. When she turned back to Gini, there were tears of sympathy in her eyes. She pressed Gini’s hand.
“I fear for her,” she said. “I’m afraid for her, Gini. Two such marvelous people—and now this. All that good work she does, all that love she’s poured into her marriage—and now this. Life is cruel, Gini, don’t you think?”
“People are,” Gini replied.